Life With V: a collection of drabbles
by allycat712
Summary: The following is a series of POV's from different characters in the fictional world from Eragon to V for Vendetta.
1. Chapter 1

Allycat712, formally Lúthien Meneldur

The following is a series of POV's from different characters in the fictional world. This is my first attempt at a fanfiction so please be nice. All credit to authors who inspired my work, famous lines, titles, and other works. Godspeed & Joy to you, my dearest reader.

Life With V:

A collection of drabbles from the points of view of various fictional characters

1. V for Vendetta Evey Hammond- Evey's private journal

I have not journaled my thoughts in many years. I am not eloquent, highly artistic, or musically inclined. I am not wise, athletic, or blessed in domestic housework. But I can write.

When I first came to the Shadow Gallery, I was in a state of surrealism. The only way to describe the place would be to describe V, something even I am not able to do.

I see his home as a grand mausoleum enclosing what the outside world considers "dead art", serving no purpose to humanity other than instigation of revolutionary icons like V. However, it is remarkable the amount of work he did to procure such a collection. Each piece of treasure here has it's own story to tell, and the curator is no exception.

Oooo

V hasn't spoken to me much since coming here a short while ago, but I possess a gift for understanding others very well. He isn't hard to read, his motives and movements fit together in an interlinking puzzle. Of course, I know almost nothing about his inner self; that he can rest assured will always remain safe with him.

Oooo

I don't miss London, not really. Actually, I'm not even from London—I was born in Surrey and grew up in Shooter's Hill. There I had an older brother and two loving parents, of whom were zealous political activists. Until my brother was taken by St. Mary's, my mother starved to death in a hunger strike, and my father was shot by soldiers during an assault on Belmont Prison. As for me, I spent my teenage years at a reclamation camp to be "re-educated" and released back into society (which I did at the age of 17)

So many Englanders were killed by the St. Mary's virus that London would take any naïve kid into her arms and give her a promising future. That's how I came to work at the British Broadcasting Network (BBN). Subsequently, that's also how I came to meet this extraordinary individual who for the time being, I live with, laugh with, and surprisingly, enjoy stimulating conversation with.

As I said before, V isn't one to share personal history with. My analysis of this character is as follows:

V is a charismatic and skilled fighter who suffered as a subject of torture to Norsefire. Based on a brief opportunity to see him prepare me breakfast the morning I was first brought here, he has a series of intricate scars that run along his body (presumably fire burns). He wears primarily black clothing, a Guy Fawkes mask, a wig, and a set of leather boots and gloves.

Under the opinion of society one might think V is rather comical in appearance, but that is not what I have found. I see him as a sensible man who is very well-adorned. Sure it is unusual fashion for the day, but the fact that V is perfectly serious in his attire gives him even more credit to his cool air and manner of conduct.

In a less-serious way, I find V as a verbose man of intelligence, style, and down-to-earth humility—and I find it very fetching to be honest.

Oooo

I really do admire V, he is one of the most important figures in my life, and he reminds me each day of why humanity is always searching for a way to make life the best it can be. I wish I was more like V and less like the woman I see in the mirror. He is kind, witty, strong, and has a healthy sense of humor that is so genuine, it has become rare is this social order.

Oooo

We have a unique relationship in the Shadow Gallery. I don't have the freedom to act in a sate of "impropriety" as one would do in their flat at home. Still, we maintain a friendship that involves a dose of frequent conversation, the preparation of meals, and various ways of entertainment to ward of the state of boredom.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if I've been under a state of Stockholm Syndrome living with V. I certainly don't see him as a captor or someone trying to keep me here for their own desires of "companionship". No, I love this secret hideout of my antihero. It makes me wonder, with as long as I've been locked away in the crazy world I live in, how far away is heaven? I dream better here, I think freely here, and I am not bound by the way I am told to live. For the first time since I was a young child, I can sleep without the fear of being ripped from the world and hidden until I submit to what they want me to believe. Actually, I have since coming here been able to sleep, which I have done excessively, and find myself almost always in a dream that either reminds me of my present state, of involves my housemate, V. I guess that somehow the power he has over me had affected my mental state—"the phantom of the opera is there, inside my mind."

Oooo

I don't feel like I serve any purpose in the Gallery. It's like an extended summer holiday, in which after a while, you get so spiritless that no matter what you do, each day is routine and prosaic.

Oooo

I have grown fond of the familiar surroundings. This place can only be expressed as some cript-undercroft-hybrid, absolutely stuffed with artifacts, books, and a variety of other lost bygone relics. Some of which I must say never cease to amaze me. "The Arnolfini Portrait", "Bacchus and Aridne", "St. Sabastian", several statutes I assume to be the work of Giacometti, and my personal favorite, "The Lady of Shalott", are just a few. Bookshelves, the Wurlitzer Jukebox and darling pianoforte, and a suit of armor (whom V frequently trains with as a "Kingpin of His Gym") are also among note of special significance, and help bring the showroom to life.

Oooo

The Land-of-Do-as-You-Please is a good way to describe the country we're striving for. In the fashion of every leader or revolutionary in history, V uses anarchy to achieve a functional English culture. It's beautiful; V manages to hold off any penalty or attack in a secretive way of manipulating everyone else to work together according to a well-planned scheme.

Before all of the plotting and politics, though, there was music. I remember my mother playing Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata"; I can remember her dancing with my father to "Careless Whisper", "Far Away", and "I Found a Reason". It was a a surprise for me to re-discover them here in the home of lost rarities. I find myself more and more swimming downstream into the sounds of music, wasting my time daydreaming of how my mother moved. All of those dances she once taught me, Waltz, Cha-Cha, Tango, Shag, and Swing—they are useless to me.

Oooo

I suspect V steals things from me (mainly my ID) to procure what he needs. Everything I do is watched, not unlike London, and drives me to fear what I say, write, and overall do in the Shadow Gallery. I wouldn't be surprised if V has read this journal. As a result, I am careful in expressing my opinions, for V's sake, and my own. V, if you have read this documentation, you have no reason to suspect betrayal; this piece stays here; my opinions are confidential—both now and years from now.

Oooo

I must say that the longer I stay here, the more I doubt my place in this world. Like an unexpected dream, I am haunted by the fact that somewhere right now, those I was once close to are most likely being interrogated by Norsefire regarding what they know of me.

I've drawn into myself again; fearing, loving, trying to cope—all to no avail. Should I stumble, everything I've hidden will be revealed.

Oooo

In this time here, I've grown close to V, not in a romantic way, but I do care for him. I'm sure he's just as on edge as I, and I can't help but say that he is either a genuine man of integrity, or an eager investigator who hides in wait for his prey. And those moments scare me the most. Am I afraid of V? No. Do I last long under his looming gaze (I've estimated his height to be at least 6"2')? No. Does he take interest in what I say? There is not a shadow of a doubt that he highly regards my opinions and well-being.

Oooo

The End of Evey's Journal- the day of the Bishop's murder, in which she ran away from V.


	2. Life With V: a collection of drabbles

Allycat712, formally Lúthien Meneldur

July 29, 2014

Life With V:

A collection of drabbles from the points of view of various fictional characters

2. Symyr Emvinyatar- 7/29/2014

The following is a series of POV's from different characters in the fictional world. All credit to authors who inspired my work, famous lines, titles, and other works. This is a piece greatly inspired by CelticThunder1084's Enemy to Lover (Durza the Shade Romance/ Fanfiction), which I encourage you to read before this. Godspeed & Joy to you, my dearest reader.

"Very good soup," Durza tells me. "Oh, you expected something else?" I reply playfully, "After all, I am a woman and do possess some domestic ability." He offers me a tender smile—the kind he only shares with me.

Oooo

After dinner I nonchalantly wash the pot and clean the other utensils (with magic of course). Sometime during my cleaning, he charmingly looms over my back and caresses me in the ways only he can. A kiss to my skin near the ear...a kiss to the neck, making my hairs stand on edge. He lifts his hand to the crown of my head and runs it down the back, inching towards my collar. His hand is large enough to cover all of the skin; I feel the soft palm sweep my hair back like a curtain. He rests the hand on my left shoulder, just above the blade.

Oooo

As soon as the last item is clean, his hand begins moving again...he toys with the cloth I wear, pulling just enough to place to kiss to the shoulder. Durza pulls me at my sides, and holds my to his chest. Kisses to the contour of my face and hair. I turn into those kisses and return them.

Our faces are no longer slanted downwards, but are constantly in long, drawn-out motion, hungry for the other. Back and forth we brush like cats searching for a scratch. Now at our full height, the kisses slow and quicken according to the dominant.

Oooo

I can't get him out of my head, everything is like a soft melody that plays over and over and over—and it's fine by me if we hold each other this way forever.

He's staring at me now, our emotions and thoughts merge for a moment as we break the mental barrier. My eyes close halfway, and linger on his upper chest. I press a kiss to his lips knew more time, his hand on the back of my head.

Oooo

I never once thought that the former dark agent would be the one to hold my heart. He is my light, and I am his. Though I am not looking, I can tell his eyes are half-closed like mine; wearing a small smile.

If our magic separately is powerful, then this love is mighty; divine. Our minds flux. Love is so near. We are desperate souls in need of the other. Let the rains come tonight and keep the morning away. I stand with you forever, Durza, let us live forever in one thought.

Oooo

I am a young woman in my early twenties, but should I wish it, I could change my appearance at will—I'm what's known as a metamorphagus—and can alter my form to whatever I choose. I am practiced well in magic and spirits, wield a sword (Nardurlos), and can break the mind-barrier without others sensing my presence. As for family, I am poor, poorer than anyone here in this part of Alagaësia, have a terribly ill mother, a dead father, and a sister who betrayed my by sleeping with my betrothed. What else is new?

Oh, right: Durza has just challenged me to a duel of death. What choice to I have? I either stay in the tree, only for it to fall at his command, die honorably in battle with him, or accept his offer to find the new Dragon Rider.

I come to my senses and daintily fall from the treetop. "I'm ready," I say calmly.

Oooo

I wake up from my dreams to see Durza where he lays. Oh, it's so sobering to watch someone you love sleep. I roll over to him and lean in ever so slowly...to wake him in the best way.

Oooo

He looks at me with his lovely clear eyes—once deep red, now somewhere between white and pale blue. "My love," I say while his eyes continue searching me. His face tilts, and edges closer to my own.

Oooo

Whatever I could've said then in that silence makes no difference, because now my lover is with me, placing kisses all over my face—slow and tender that makes a distinctive noise when pressed. That is our way; quality and quantity. Like dragons we are more emotionally connected than physically, only not to the point of sweet-nothing's and pillow-talk (which neither of us cares for). Emotional love; eternally bound like dragons mated for life. And some nights, we'll just carry on...or something like that.

Oooo

End of Symyr's Thoughts


End file.
